"That too," he growls. "Listen, son. I'm made up of three things: this ranch, the horses, and your mother. My family matters—but your mother..." His voice catches, surprising them both. "If I lost her, none of this would mean a thing.” There's a pause, the sound of his breathing through the line. “That's the gospel truth. And if I ever had to choose, it'd be her I'd save. Every time."
"I messed up, Dad. And now I'm dealing with the consequences." A knife twists in my gut. "Losing Kinsley is one of those."
The admission costs me. Because I'm not dealing with anything—I'm running from it. Hiding behind bull riding and distance and the excuse that I'm doing what's right when all I'm doing is breaking both our hearts.
He swears. “I didn’t raise you to be stupid.”
“Naw,” I feign indifference. “You just raised me to be stubborn and difficult.”
"The body can keep going long after the heart stops beating.” Dad's voice gentles slightly. “I've seen it happen to men who lose what matters most. Don't let that be you."
I lean against the fence, suddenly tired. "Dad—"
"Come home, Wyatt." He hangs up before I can argue.
I stand there behind the chutes with my gear bag at my feet and my father's words ringing in my ears.
"Halloway, you're up in chute five," the official tells me.
I grab my rope and head to my spot.
Devil's Backbone.
Two thousand pounds of spite. Black as a moonless night and twice as mean. The kind of bull that sorts the pretenders from the professionals real quick.
I should be feeling that familiar kick in my gut—the one that comes with staring down something that could kill me and betting I'm tougher. My heart should hammer against my ribs like it always does before the gate swings open.
But there's nothing. Just empty space where the fire used to burn.
My hands work the rope without conscious thought, muscle memory from a hundred rides before this one. Leather worn smooth as creek stones, familiar as my own skin. But even this ritual feels like going through the motions of somebody else's life.
Devil's Backbone shifts beneath me, muscles coiled tight as steel springs. He knows what's coming, same as I do.
I used to love this moment. The split second before the gate opens when everything hangs in the balance. It used to make me feel more alive than anything else in the world.
Now I just want it over with.
Dad's words echo in my head as I wrap the rope around my hand. He's right. I curse under my breath. I hate it when Dad’s right.
The flagman raises his arm, ready to signal the gate crew. Time to find that zone where nothing else exists.
But even as two thousand pounds of fury prepare to explode out of this chute like a freight train derailment, all I can think about is Kinsley.
"You ready, cowboy?" The gate man's voice cuts through my thoughts.
I nod.
The gate swings open and Devil's Backbone launches himself into the arena like he's been shot from a cannon. His first jump is straight up, all four hooves leaving the ground. The impact when we come down rattles my teeth and sends shockwaves up my spine.
The bull spins left, then right. The crowd's on their feet—eight hundred people screaming for a good ride. But their cheers sound like they're coming from miles away, like none of it matters anymore.
Because what's the point of any of this without her?
Devil’s Backbone changes tactics, going into a series of high, twisting bucks. Each impact drives the air from my lungs; each spin threatens to tear my arm from its socket.But I stay centered, stay balanced, like my body knows what to do even when my mind is somewhere else entirely.
Five seconds. Three more till the buzzer. The bull’s running out of steam, falling into that fight that means he's done trying to kill me and just wants this over with. On any other night, I'd be ticked off—I paid good money to get on a bull with some fight left in him.
Tonight, he could roll over and play dead for all I care. Because I finally get it. What's been gnawing at my gut for days. Why this whole blasted thing feels more like serving time than breaking free.